Angel
by Kirixchi
Summary: There was music, even in hell. After fleeing the mob in Paris, the Phantom awakes at Treize Clouches, an asylum in the French countryside. There he finds a second chance at life and at love.


_AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is the unsmutty version of the story I wrote for lj user"aulizia" . In order to keep it from the kiddies, and other unsuspecting non-smut fanciers, I've friends-locked that version and stashed it on LiveJournal. Please let me know if you are of age and would like to read it. Keep in mind 1) that I despise Christine and 2) that I haven't seen the movie version of this story. My knowledge of the plot/events stems from seeing the play on Broadway many, many moons ago, and 3) Erik is a stupid name. That's why the Phantom is always "he". I hope that this provides passing pleasure for Phantom fans. It is probably plot-hole-er-iffic, but finished_

**Angel**

**By Kirixchi For Aulizia**

There was music, even in hell.

In spite of the knowledge that he shouldn't have a corporeal form at all, he felt his muscles bunch. He felt his body steel against the buzzing whine of… _humming_? It wasn't possible. And yet, somehow it was _real_ all the same. The sound was growing louder and more distinct as his mind began to clear. Somehow he wasn't dead. He had only been asleep.

"What's that? Are you waking?"

A voice replaced the hum. It was a woman's voice- but not his beloved Christine. _No, she was gone now, gone to her Raoul _…He shrank away from stranger, continuing to feign sleep.

A cool hand brushed against his brow. He flinched instinctively and then realized, to his mortification, that he no longer wore his mask. He was exposed- and yet his mysterious benefactor did not shy away. The wretched humming began again, and the hand withdrew, replaced a moment later by a cold, damp cloth.

He felt his heart hammering in his chest, but didn't let his mind dwell in panic. He struggled to remember where he was.

There was the opera- _Don Juan_ , and his Angel, and then…his gut twisted as he remembered when she had ripped his mask away, when the hammer had finally fallen and the moment he had dreaded from his cradle finally came. He had been exposed for the monster he was, and there had been no choice but to flee.

For all that, he might have been happy.

Rage nipped at the anguish, consuming it in tiny pieces as the following events slipped through his mind…the race through the tunnels, the suitor, the kiss…

Lost in musings, he forgot his ruse. Eyes still closed, he lifted his hand to his lips, brushing his fingertips over the swell, starting at the corner, across the smooth curve, and then crumpling in torment when he felt the twisted, ravaged side. Half of him was beautiful…but only half- and half had not been enough.

"Christine!" he moaned softly, and instantly regretted the mistake. There was a shuffling of footsteps and he could sense the woman beside his bed again.

"Monsieur? May I help you? Are you in pain?"

There was a stumbling sound, and then a crash. He felt a drip of moisture against his arm, and finally deigned to open his eyes.

"So clumsy of me," the woman was almost muttering to herself, and so he didn't speak when she mopped at a pool of water that had formed beneath an overturned basin beside the bed. She was crouched too low for him to see her face. He could make out only a crown of dark brown hair, twisted into an unfashionable knot, a plain blue dress, and pale forearms scrubbing furiously at the floor. His eyes narrowed in contempt at the inelegance of her movements. Truly, it was not surprising that she had overturned the bowl.

"Where am I?"

The sharpness of his voice must have startled the girl, because she sat up quickly and turned her head, though her eyes strangely never rested on his face. She seemed to be looking past him as she patted the mattress and slowly stood. "Sir? You _are _conscious again. Abbé Fougère will want to know."

She turned and began to leave, but he caught her arm, darkly gratified by the horrified gasp that fell from her lips.

"I asked you a question," he growled.

"You are at _Treize Clouches_ , monsieur," she chirped back like a frightened bird. He could feel her trembling beneath his fingertips, though the satisfaction in this discovery was waning. He lifted his eyes to her face, unsurprised at the fear patent there, and enraged by her refusal to meet his gaze.

"Look at me," he hissed, his voice acidic. He jerked her closer, "Isn't that why I'm here?

Isn't that what everyone wants to do- to look at the monster?"

"I…I'm sure that I don't know what you mean, sir," she squeaked, but he noticed that she didn't pull away. Her spine was stiff and unyielding, in spite of her obvious distress.

"You are at a hospital, monsieur. We mean to help you here."

"A hospital?" he released her, shocked.

"Yes, monsieur. Do you remember what happened? You were found at the church."

"At the church? Where?" he sat up, eyes casting round the room to test the truth of the woman's words. It didn't look like a cell. It was small, but tidy. The only means of escape was a high stone window or a narrow wooden door across the way.

"I…I don't know monsieur, I wasn't told."

Her hands twisted nervously in her skirts, ignoring the lock of hair that had escaped and hung over her forehead. She looked so young- so like his darling Christine, that a bit of his anger fled.

"I require food," he said, assuming that this would test the theory as to whether he was truly a prisoner here or not.

"Of course," the woman nodded and dipped in a curtsy, but she didn't flee. "Er…how much can you pay, monsieur?"

"Pay?" his eyes narrowed in confusion.

"For…for the food, monsieur." Embarrassment shone on her face. "The cook won't give it to me without a few francs. You aren't enrolled here, monsieur …but they thought…you appeared to be a man of means, monsieur."

He felt in his pockets. He hadn't been robbed. Whoever had brought him here hadn't bothered to change his clothes. His fingers brushed over a piece of silver- a bit of the money he had demanded from the Opera. There was more- so much more- but had it been discovered? Had his hoard been breeched on the night that he fled?

That didn't matter now. He forced his mind to stay on the present. He slipped the coin out of his pocket and gave it to the girl. "Meat and wine," he commanded, and then watched as she slipped away.

She had fully disappeared before he mused on the strangeness of the scene- strange for its normalcy. It had been the ordinary interaction of a master and servant. The fear that the girl displayed had been from his treatment, and not his face. He had never been treated so calmly by another human being- no one besides his muse, and she had been slowly wooed…

He tried again to push the thoughts away and to concentrate on his current predicament. He felt soreness in his limbs and face, though from blows or exhaustion, he wasn't sure. Still, he steadfastly forced his lids apart. He had to keep his wits. Apart from a pocket of silver, it might be the only asset he retained. He had to find his mask…his boots…His eyes flicked about, but he was almost too tired for them to focus. Like ropes twining around his mind, tendrils of dreams wove through his consciousness, tempting him back to sleep.

"_CHRISTINE!!!!!!!!"_

It was the cry of a wounded animal… i His /i cry, and it echoed through his mind as he finally fell back into darkness. Her tiny hand slipped into that of her lover, and then she was swallowed by shadows. He was left alone to endure the soft staccato of her fading steps, and the discordant bass of the approaching mob.

_"Find him!" "_

_"Kill him!"_

_"Monster!"_

_"Freak!"_

He should have died. He wanted to die. They wanted him dead. It would have been so easy…but ease and comfort was something he had never embraced. His body overrode his mind. The animal inside him stirred, its instinct for survival stirred, and he ran into the night.

He didn't remember how far he ran. The tunnels had opened at the river, and he had followed it downstream until he passed the limits of the city. He ran to the edge of a meadow, drawn by the chiming of bells…

"Monsieur?"

He started, eyes instantly wide and body at full alert. He must have dozed, because the girl had returned, bearing a tray of steaming food. The cuisine was more rustic than he was accustomed too: a hunk of bread and bowl of steaming soup- but he was ravenous, and so he accepted the tray without complaint. The girl lingered by the bedside, looking past him again as though she were waiting to see if he required more.

He waved his hand in dismissal, but she didn't go. His frown deepened, but then realization struck.

"You're blind."

This time, the girl finally flinched, "Yes, monsieur," she finally acknowledged, "I earn my keep here…shall I call someone else to serve you, monsieur?"

"No." A shadow fell over his face again. "You suit me well." She did, more than she knew. If she could see his face she would run away shrieking. It was only her own defects that kept her by his side...and yet, there was comfort in her presence, in communion with another living soul. "How long have you been here?" he queried.

This time it was the girl who smiled darkly, "Too long."

Perhaps the great English playwright was correct: all of the world was a stage. The cast remained the same, acting out their lives on different sets. Here at _Treize Clouches_ there were all the players he remembered from the Opera: acted out again on different sets. The players were all the same. He saw them all from the window of his room: Madame Giry and her daughter in the form of Mother Marie and Sister Anna, the nuns of the order that served the hospital. There was Carlotta in Countess Aberlaine, an English noblewoman whose stepson had committed as dangerously insane, who liked to sit in the courtyard and boss about the housemaids while declaring her sanity loudly to anyone who would listen. There were even André and Firmin, combined in a single body in the person of Abbé Fougère, the officious, nervous priest who made rounds once a day, and who presided in the chapel once a week for Sunday Mass. There were others- bearing different names and faces, but the same spirits as those he had watched from his box: petty, arrogant, weak, short-tempered, grasping…all the fine specimens he had mocked were on full display. None were absent, save his darling- the only one who mattered…

She was somewhere beyond the gates, beyond his grasp now that he had chosen this place for his exile.

"You didn't come to Mass this morning."

He turned, his face pinching into an automatic sneer as Catherine, the little chambermaid, announced her presence as she always did- by simply wandering into his room. He accounted for her rudeness by the recognition that it hardly mattered if he'd been engaged in something personal. She couldn't see him, after all.

This time, she was delivering a bundle of fresh linens, and he didn't move to help her as she groped the edge of his mattress, stripping away the old before laboriously spreading on the new. "Abbé will be cross if you don't come. We're all meant to go. Abbé says its good for our s-"

"My soul is already damned," he spat back, relieved when she was finally silenced. He had no patience for the church- for its lies of love and acceptance. It was a tool for pacification. Treize Clouches was less a hospital than an asylum, and it was meant to keep the residents appeased, to distract them so that they could be contained. He would _not _submit.

Catherine patted down the sheets, ran her hands over the mattress several times to make sure that it was smooth before plucking a blanket from her basket. "Still, you missed the music."

"Music," he snarled, holding the Abbé's torture of the pipe organ a greater blasphemy than the one he had just uttered, "I'd rather hear the howling of dogs."

"Well, I think it's beautiful." He turned toward her, always amused by her small demonstrations of spirit. Her lower lip was quivering, "I think it's lovely when we sing…like angels."

"You've never heard an Angel sing!" the mere word was enough to stoke his rage, and Catherine shrank against the wall when he took her basket and flung it into the door.

"I'm sorry."

He was vaguely aware that _he_ was the one who ought to be uttering the apology, but he had no patience for niceties. He had never needed manners before.

There was no answer to make. He fluttered his fingers in her direction, and started to turn again, when he noticed that her hair had slipped free from its knot. Bedraggled and still anxious, she looked achingly young. Some strange emotion seized him…pity? He couldn't recall having ever felt that for another human being before. Curious, he acted on his urge and started across the room.

"Your hair has fallen," he snapped, stopping at his bedside to retrieve a comb he'd ordered purchased in town. Catherine flinched when he touched her shoulders- though this had nothing to do with his hideous face. She was still rattled by his display of temper. "Sit," he commanded, not bothering to try and soothe her. She did as she was told, and he plucked the remaining pins from her hair. It tumbled over her back in ragged clumps. It had been washed, but not properly combed in too long. "You look like a beggar," he said harshly, but his hands were gentler than his voice when he lifted a matted clump and began to work free the knots. "Don't you brush it yourself?"

Catherine flushed, her embarrassment patent even thought the expression never met her eyes, "I can't find my comb," she admitted sheepishly, "I must have misplaced it."

"Stolen, more likely," he muttered under his breath. In his short residence here, he had rarely ventured beyond his room. Still, he kept nearly constant vigil from his window. He had watched Catherine from above, had seen how the children and even some of the men liked to move boxes to make her trip, or to pluck bits of mending and pins from her basket while she worked, laughing as she searched frantically for the missing items, and when she was punished for their loss. He had felt every chortle and sneer as though it were directed it him, and had marked them down in accounts. There would be a reckoning some day.

"Surely no one would steal a comb," Catherine protested, but her voice lacked any conviction. She fell silent again as he continued to work, picking the rats out of her hair with nimble fingers, and then smoothing down the locks.

"You would be a pretty girl if you bothered," he meant to sound scolding, but had lost the edge to his voice. He was surprised when she snorted.

"No one is looking at me."

He bit his lip, feeling the resonance of her words. He had always hidden behind a mask, hiding his defects from the world, but which was more terrible? The horror on their faces when they looked, or the hollow aching when they did not look back?

"They would," he contradicted, and then picked up another handful of hair.

_They would_, he admitted to himself as the comb slid down her back. He had been as guilty as anyone else of turning away, but on closer examination, she was an uncommonly pretty girl. Her eyes were faded green, so light they were almost grey, and her skin was creamy pale. Her body was slight, but well shaped with a narrow waist, small breasts, and a slender neck. Her face was also pleasing- nothing to his Christine, but lovely all the same. She had bright, full lips, good teeth and a straight nose. It was only her expression that left him cold- Cold, but oddly captivated. Her eyes were flat and blank- like staring onto the water of a misty lock.

"Don't look at me like that."

He stopped automatically, and then frowned when he realized what she had said.

"Like what?" he asked, "What makes you think I'm looking?"

"I can hear it," Catherine said anxiously. She jumped off the bed and began gathering her basket and the discarded linens. Her hair still hung loose around her face, hiding it from his view, "I can hear your breath…the catching. I don't want…I don't want you to be like them."

"Like them?" he asked, not understanding. One of the discarded sheets had been kicked away from where she'd dropped it, and she was forced to carefully probe the floor until her fingers brushed it.

"Like…like the boys in the kitchen," she choked, "I don't like what they do."

At last the pieces fell into place. Though her eyes were still cool mirrors, he could read the terror in her body. She was trembling. In spite of more proper sensibilities, he slipped off of the bed and went to her side. "What do they do?" he breathed, seeking confirmation, but already imagining what the wild, vicious boys who carried in deliveries could do with their rough hands and savage appetites.

"They…" she started, but her voice dissolved into tears.

"Didn't you tell Abbé?" he commanded, incensed.

"I…I can't tell Abbé," she breathed, her tone informing her that he shouldn't press any further, "I'm meant to earn my keep."

Rage bubbled through his veins- almost a relief after so many weeks of impotent grief. Here was a wrong that he could right; a score that he could settle, if only to release a bit of the pressure he felt inside.

"Oh, no, my sweet," he purred, stepping forward and running his fingers through her hair again, "I am nothing like them. You have nothing to fear from me."

He had been watching all his life: watching and waiting. He had never dared intrude on the dramas that he witnessed until he had met Christine. It seemed natural for him to fall into the pattern again, watching Catherine as she went about her day, moving from her chilly cot in the cellar to the kitchens, and then to her rounds in the asylum, treading in the shadows and managing somehow never to be seen.

He had expected it to be more difficult. He no longer had the subterranean labyrinth of Paris to shroud his steps, but this was not the case. People were the camouflage here. He was a broken and ruined man, but no more so than the others crowded here with their humps and limps and missing limbs. They never troubled his progress, rarely acknowledged his presence when they slipped past in the halls. Soon, he was as he had been before: a phantom, unseen and unnoticed, ignored until he sometimes doubted himself that he was real, save the conversations he had with Catherine in his quarters. He learnt to avoid even chance encountered, ducking into alcoves and cupboards, into the deep wells of shadow between the pillars inside the church so that he hovered around her like an unseen wraith, appearing only when one of her tormentors began to emerge. There were fewer than he had feared. Most of the residents of _Treize Clouches_ were too embroiled in their own private manias to trouble a harmless maid. Still, there were others, those whose sickness bent toward sadism, and the mentally stout who were only bored, that found pleasure in her torment. He hunted them, pleased to find that they were blind in their own ways as well, and easy to repay with theft and pain as quickly as it was dealt.

Catherine was, in her own way, surprisingly adroit at avoiding harm. She told him that she could hear how he was looking, and he started to believe that it was true. At close quarters, he memorized her reaction. He saw how her eyes narrowed, and her body tensed when footsteps sounded in the hall. He read her face as she processed the sound, measuring the gait and stride and matching it with a face. He noted whether relief or worry was her response.

He hadn't imagined her doing anything but working, but he quickly discovered that this was not the case. She liked to walk to the edge of kirkyard, to the furthest corner of the fence. It was as far as she was allowed to roam, on the edge of the meadow that bordered the church. She settled there in the late afternoon, sometimes eating an apple or crust of bread as she enjoyed the sun on her face. They were such simple pleasures and yet, so richly enjoyed that he sometimes ached.

"Are you hungry?"

It was the fourth evening that he had followed her, ostensibly unseen, and so he was startled when she turned and spoke.

"I know that you are there."

He held his tongue, hoping that she was bluffing, but she offered a piece of her apple, waving it just beneath his nose. "Take it. You didn't have any supper. I know. You were with me then too."

"You didn't eat either," he finally replied, accepting the fruit and took a bite, enjoying the burst of tartness in his mouth.

"I didn't want to miss it," she replied.

"Miss it?" he answered, but wasn't permitted to continue, because from within the church there was a sudden groan of sound.

"Abbé practices on Thursdays," she whispered as the thrum of the pipe organ seeped through the walls. "I think that music is the most beautiful thing in the world."

His lips twisted into a sneer, "You call this music?" he laughed, but then reconsidered. Of course she did. She had not been born to the Opera, or even to the streets of Paris. The organ and the bells were the only instruments that she had ever heard.

"People feel sorry for me because I am blind," she continued, as if she hadn't heard the question, "But I would be sorriest if I were deaf. I can see in the music…" Perhaps involuntarily, she clutched his arm. "There- those are mountains, do you hear them?" she breathed when the Abbé touched a low base chord, "And the angels there."

"The melody," he supplied, negligently, wishing that there were some way to draw her back into time- to show her the majestic world of music over which he had ruled.

"The melody," she repeated. "Have you heard the Countess sing? She does sometime at Christmas."

He rather doubted that he would be impressed, but didn't say so.

"Have you ever been to a real performance?" he asked, moving closer to her side.

"Of music?" she asked, but didn't wait for him to answer, "No. I've only left _Treize Clouches_ once that I remember- at least, only once without my mother." She shivered, "It's a terrible place."

"The village?" he frowned.

"The world!" the ardor in her voice was puzzling, "I wanted to buy a present for Abbé's birthday…he'd given me a doll for Christmas- the only one that I ever had…only I didn't know the number of steps- only the directions."

He nodded as she continued her tale, "I kept waking toward the village, but I had been turned around somewhere. It got quieter…and colder…" Almost subconsciously, his hand wrapped around her waist, "It was two days before they found me. I'd wandered off the road. I might have died. It isn't safe for me outside…_Treize Clouches_ is my home. I'll never leave it!" she finished in a definite tone.

He frowned and tried to distract her by changing the subject. "Did I tell you where I came from before here?" he asked in almost a whisper, wondering if he was ready to remember.

She shook her head.

"An Opera…do you know what that is?"

She didn't- he could tell from the face. She might understand the word, but she had never begun to comprehend the scope, or the vivid beauty.

"The curtains are red velvet," he began, closing his eyes and letting his mind wander back to what felt like a lifetime before, and not the mere months that had truly passed. "There are gaslights all around the apron that flicker and glitter like a ring of diamonds, and cast a glow on the stage so that…" he let his voice trail off. He was not explaining in a way that Catherine could understand.

He frowned for a moment, and then nudged her to her feet, coaxing her to walk the five feet to the church's stone. Inside the organ was still playing, the low notes vibrating through the stone. He laid her hand against it. "At the Opera, you can feel the music quivering all the way through your body. In your chest, your feet, your hair…It smells like woodpolish, and flowers, and the talc that the dancers use on their shoes. When you step onto the stage, the heat from the lights-"

"You were a performer?"

Catherine's interjection stopped him short, lancing his enthusiasm for the topic. "Of sorts," he growled, hating that his mind was drawn instantly back to _her_- to Christine, to his Angel who had abandoned him for…for _sight _.

His fingers curled into the soil, uprooting a clump of grass when he clenched them tightly, willing the pain to pass. Christine had been given the gift of sight, but she had never really seen. She had looked onto his ravaged face, but she hadn't looked past it. She hadn't seen him living for her, _bleeding_ for her and all of her talent. She had only seen Raoul's chiseled face. Where else could he ever be bested? He was the genius who nurtured his muse. He was wealthy, sophisticated, strong…He was everything she had needed, and yet she had been so blind- so much more so than Catherine.

She was staring at him.

He blinked, realizing, for the first time, that her eyes were fixed on him and not toward him. The pale green irises were fixed.

"I didn't think that you could see," he snapped.

"I can see some light," she corrected, "Some colours…I….I'm sorry…" she turned away and he felt a twinge of disappointment. It was as though a connection between them had been broken. Returning his attention to the church, he heard that the organ had gone silent as well.

"We should return inside," he said, more to break the awkward silence than through any true necessity. They wouldn't be missed if they were gone. No one paid them any mind, but still he felt compelled to make the appearance.

Catherine nodded his head. He helped her to the door, holding her elbow lightly, paying her the most gentlemanlike attentions. It was darkly amusing for him when he realized what a farce they were: a gentleman escorting a lady home: a monster and a servant!

He slept fitfully that night, in a dream more full of sound and smell than sight. Only faces flashed before his sleeping eyes: Catherine and then Christine, and then both, merged somehow into unattainable perfection. He was unrested, and overslept the following morning, so that Catherine was already long gone on her rounds before he stumbled out of bed.

It was raining. Fat drops slapped across the panes of his window as he stared outside, cursing the weakness that had held him asleep. The weather interrupted normal chores, keeping more people inside the house and making his task of shadowing his little charge more difficult than on a normal day.

She wasn't in the dormitories, or in the chemist's office below the stairs. He searched the hallways, and the stables, and then finally the chapel, but found nothing.

He supposed that he might ask, but the other occupants of the house, even its most vivid members, were little more than strangers such as he might meet on the street. Those who could offer a cognizant answer were unlikely to have paid a girl like Catherine the slightest bit of mind. Still the complex was not so vast that he shouldn't find her on his own, so as the day wore on, his anxiety grew.

The chapel bells rang at luncheon, calling those few residents who had wandered into the drizzle back inside for a midday meal. He preferred to take meals on his own, and knew that Catherine also rarely supped with the others, but he was alarmed to see that she still did not come inside. He watched from his window, anxiously scanning the faces that came inside. It was only when the last chime faded that he was seized by a new idea. Could she have returned to the chapel? She seemed far more aware of the music practice schedules than he. She wouldn't know what to do with an organ, and probably didn't know her way around the church by herself, but it was the only portion of the grounds left unexplored.

After waiting for the others to pass, he crept out of doors, ignoring the gloom and damp as he made his way to the edge of the fence.

He didn't enter the front of the church. The habit of stealth precluded such a blatant action. He treaded around the gravestones in the churchyard until he found a window, and peered inside.

Seeing no one, he went to the rear doors and slipped inside.

The sanctuary was always dim, owing to its small windows and leaded glass. The skies outside enhanced the darkness. It was a moment before his eyes adjusted. Even then, he could make out no living shapes.

He did not kneel when he passed the tabernacle, and made no other sign of respect as he crossed the altar, staring into nooks and under pews as though Catherine had taken on his own habit of seclusion. He did not cry out her name, but strained all of his senses into the darkness.

At last, he heard it- a tiny, inconsequential sound, but one that he instantly knew: the sound of crying. He followed it back out of the sanctuary and into the sacristy, where he found her huddled at last. Someone had moved a shelf to block the doorway. It came only to his shoulder- though it would meet Catherine's head. Peering over it, he saw that she was sobbing- no doubt believing herself to be trapped.

Growling in anger, he pushed the shelf aside, his rough gesture sending the contents spilling to the floor. Then, he burst inside the room. "Catherine?" he growled and crouched beside her. His eyes skimmed over her body, and his jaw rigid at the sight of her suffering.

Her eyes were puffy and her skin was blotched with patches of grey and pink as she sobbed as though she had been broken in two.

"What happened?" he commanded, "The doorway…?"

"I thought you were with me." He could imagine no more scathing rebuke. The words fell like a whip crack. "I thought…They sent me from the kitchen to fetch the altar cloths for washing. I didn't hear you, but I thought you were there. I thought you were moving by the doorway, and then I couldn't get out…I couldn't remember how. I was so frightened."

"Catherine…"

"I'm always afraid, always…"

"No longer," he swore without thinking, "No longer, Catherine." He tried to avert his eyes as he slid the bodice back onto her arm, "I'll take you away."

"There's no place to go."

"Yes there are. Lovely places."

"Then why haven't you gone already?"

He had no answer for that, and so he stared at his hands, wishing for the words to comfort her, but finding himself painfully ill-equipped. Who was he to soothe heartache? What else had he ever known? "I didn't want to go alone," he admitted at last. He knew that he could survive in the shadows. Even if he could never have happiness of his own, he wanted to watch it from a distance, to share vicariously in the joys he was denied.

She was still sobbing miserably, in spite of his attempts to dry her tears. His eyes cast about for distraction, spying the pipe organ at the side of the church.

"Did I tell you that I played?" he asked. As he had hoped, her crying lessened.

"P-played w-what?" she replied.

He didn't answer in words. Instead, he led her carefully to the side of the chapel, helping her sit on the bench in front of the organ. He watched her pale eyes widen as she ran her fingers over the rows of keys and the carved wood of the sides. He waited until her hands were still again before he poised his own above the keys.

It was like falling into water. He exhaled in a ragged breath as his fingers sank down on the keys, and music welled up around him, soaking him, _drowning_ him in a swirling hum. The air itself suddenly seemed thick and liquid with the notes.

It had been so long. A part of him had wondered if he would still be able to weave a song, if that part of himself had atrophied along with his heart, but those fears, at least, were unfounded. A simple melody filled the air, slowly building, embroidered with trills and flourishes as lost himself again. He had all but forgotten Catherine's presence. The music had embraced him, swallowing his pain and fury. Then, he felt her touch.

He jolted, but didn't lose the rhythm when her fingernails raked his forearm. They brushed lightly to his wrist, and then hesitated. He waited for a moment to see what she would do, and then stopped playing entirely.

"I- I'm sorry!" she blurted self-consciously, and twisted away. She tried to stand, but she had not yet memorized the area around the organ. She stumbled, falling into his quickly outstretched arms.

"Sorry?" he snapped back, still too enrapt to lessen the sneer of his tone, but he didn't push her away or even let her go. Instead, he pulled her into his lap, positioning her hands back over his wrists before he began to play again.

The slight weight of Catherine's palms made his hands heavy. They moved slower across the keys, lingering in low bass chords as her nails raked further forward, and her fingers finally splayed atop his own, moving like tiny hammers in perfect step with his. He felt them twitching above him, instinctively seeking the note that he would play next, her untrained ears somehow finding the rhythm and falling with him into the song.

"What is it called?" she asked, when the music softened.

"_Catherine_…" there was no other name for the music. It had never been penned to parchment, had not been designed in his mind before spilling onto the instrument but he knew that he was playing her wild hair and sloping neck…here was her laugh, and her tenderness, all the hundred trivial details he had learnt were enrobed in notes.

"I don't understand…" she breathed, withdrawing her fingers. Her breathing had changed. The heave of her back against his chest was faster now, stirring embers that he thought were cold.

The music changed. He kept to the notes in the centre, so that his arms curled around her body.

When had he learned to love her?

"It's for you," he breathed into her hair. He was a teacher no longer. Now he was a performer, putting his heart on display. She could see mountains in the hymns. Surely she could read love in this.

His suspicions were confirmed when she pulled away again. Her hands curled around the edge of the keyboard, just below the keys. He waited, tensed in agony for her to flee, but she didn't. Instead, she tilted toward him.

He found his instinct to shy away when she tentatively lifted her hands to his face. One palm lovingly cupped his jaw, but a frown marred her face when the other encountered the smooth porcelain of his mask.

"You're hiding," she said, not quite a question and not quite an accusation. She didn't wait for him to answer, "From me?"

Was he?

Even though she couldn't see his face, he turned away, unable to answer the question. Was he hiding? They had been together so much, spoken so often, but he had never told her anything more than a faint glimmering of the truth. He had shown her only the bright light, and not the deep shadows cast behind it.

Ceasing to play again, he captured her fingers, flattening them flush against the mask. "Some things are best kept shrouded," he answered slowly.

Catherine chewed her lip. He expected her to dispute him, but she did not. Instead, she rested her head on his chest. "I think that you are right." Her fingers scratched lightly across his chest as she continued speaking. "Sometimes its better not knowing…only imagining. I can imagine so many lovely things. Do you know what you look like in my mind?"

He shook his head, and then remembered to say, "No."

"Like the music," she answered, putting her hands over his again and pushing them down into the heavy chord they had been about to play. The swell of the music filled the church, reverberating through the air. "All around me…" Catherine whispered, "Inside me…"

"Catherine…" his voice cracked as he bent toward her again, wanting to hear what she would say and, at the same time, terrified of the moment that the illusion would end. He wanted to stop her from talking. Still, he didn't know what had seized him when grabbed her shoulders, and then dipped to claim her mouth.

It was different than he expected- different than it had been before. When his lips had touched Christine's there had been a taste of something bitter. Now he placed the flavor: pity. It was absent from Catherine's kiss. Her lips were soft and yielding, and so achingly, welcomingly, warm. He knew that he should stop, that she had endured enough insults that day, but he could not refrain from taking every second that he could steal. He was confused when she didn't jerk away- even more so when her arms twined around his neck.

She didn't resist, and he was too hungry to arrest himself. Years of isolation, frustration, and want had pooled inside his body, filling a river that had finally overflowed its banks. Catherine was no great beauty. She lacked Christine's talent and graces. She was as broken as him, but she was a woman and she needed him- _wanted _him.

"Be mine," he growled, not caring if he frightened her. He _should_ frighten her. He was a monster after all, "Be mine and I will keep you safe. We'll leave this world. I'll build you a new one…" There were other Operas, other dreams…

"Please…" the whimper might have meant anything, but he chose to count it as assent. His grip dropped to her shoulders, peeling off her still-gaping dress.

He forgot that they were in a church. What did it matter? What meanings did anything have save those that men ascribed them? If he was in a temple, then it was a temple to her, and to music, and not to the God who had betrayed him. He thought of sacrilege for only a moment before he carried her to the altar, brushing the candlesticks aside, and draped her body on the marble slab.

He had never been with a woman. Fate, which had denied him so many pleasures, had withheld that completely. Still, he felt like a seducer as he stared down at Catherine's form, watching her tense in expectation as he slipped free of his clothing. She was not untouched. The kitchen boys had seen to her education- but she felt somehow more innocent than him as she groped blindly in the air between them. He moved to close the distance. His hands molded over her skin, glorying in the unfamiliar sensations that coursed through him, hardly knowing which was more dizzying: touching or being touched. She _was_ touching him now, without fear, her fingers tracing patterns on his chest, her pale eyes half-opened as they began the dance.

He hovered above her, drawing out the moment of anticipation. She might hate him for what he was about to do- if not now, than later- but in this moment, he was wanted.

"Please…" she puffed again. Her hands twisted in his hair, drawing him to her mouth, and his body shuddered as he felt her lips again. Her cool tongue dabbed against his own, breaking through his final restraints. He answered the kiss. Then, limbs twined, he made them one.

He heard the moment as strong as he felt it- a great swelling in his chest, the high, the warble of wanting drowned by the steadily building drumbeat of his pulse. He listened to the rhythm, learning it, changing it, folding it into their song. It was so much more than he had imagined. He had always been alone- and now he was one with Catherine.

Her hands scaled down his back, over the curves and hard lines of his body as if she was memorizing it- perhaps she was, changing the picture of him in her mind to match this new role as lover. There was a strange tightening in his chest, like a fraying rope. He could almost imagine the strands snapping one by one, dangling him lower until it finally snapped.

She moaned softly, undoing the last of his restraint. He had always been in control. It was his one defense against the world, and he hadn't anticipated its loss. Sensation so intense it burned sliced through him again and again and again until he was still.

He worried for a moment that he had hurt her.

"I'm sorry," he blurted. Another new sensation: _regret_ - seizing him as he took in her trembling body. He had raged against the wicked servants who had used her. Had he been any better? He had ravished her…and yet, he was amazed to see a tiny, fleeting smile dance across her lips. They parted and he expected her to say something, but she didn't. She merely lifted a hand and cupped his cheek, stroking it tenderly and giving him the oddest impression that she _saw_ something- even if it wasn't with her eyes.

"I'm glad you came to _Treize Clouches_ ," she said at last, and then she squirmed free and groped on the ground for her dress.

He walked her back to the main building, his hand loosely on her elbow as he steered her carefully back to the hallways that she knew.

"Will you…will you play for me tomorrow?" she asked when she reached the turn for her room.

He paused to touch her shoulder. "Of course," he answered, and then kissed her cheek before bidding her farewell.

He did not return to his room. Instead, his footsteps led him to the kitchens. He ignored the wide-eyes of the cook, moving directly to the over-turned bins outside the door where the kitchen boys were lounging and neglecting their tasks.

They stiffened when they saw him, and his lips twisted with satisfaction. His stature, and the mystery of his mask had this affect on them, and he was glad for it.

"You were in the church today," he said, the words were not a question. "You enjoyed your little game, I suppose?"

The two boys, both youths of 15 or 16 years, exchanged guilty glances.

"Dunno what you mean, monsieur," one of them squeaked, and then stooped for a box of potatoes.

He slapped the box away. "Perhaps I should jog your memory?" the threat in his voice was clear.

"It was only a spot of fun…" the other started, but faltered in the face of a deadly glare.

"What do you mind?" the first said, boldly.

"Yeah, what do you mind?" the second followed his lead.

He felt his patience snap. Without even consciously thinking of what to do, he seized the impudent boy's collar and slammed him against the wall, the bricks colliding with his back so violently that it stole his breath.

He waited for the wheezing to subside before he growled against his victim's ear. "Perhaps _you _would like to know what it is like to be helpless and taunted? And then you could tell me why I mind."

"She's just a maid," the boy spat.

"She's MINE!" he growled, and rammed the boy against the wall a second time before tossing him effortlessly aside. The hapless boy crashed into a stack of boxes, knocking his head against a corner so that a trickle of blood oozed from his temple. He lay there, dazed, until his companion grabbed his collar and they both began skittering away.

Satisfied that he had gotten his point across, the one-time phantom returned to his room.

He did not dream of Christine that night, but sank into blank slumber to the sounds of a lullaby drifting through his mind. He awoke at first light and crept down to the cellar to meet Catherine for her morning chores and to once again follow her on her rounds. They finished at nightfall, stopping in the chapel to play again, and then they returned to his room.

Weeks passed. It was strange how completely, and yet how subtly his life had changed. The year before, he was the Opera Ghost, living a life of intrigue and murder. Now he was merely an ordinary man…his lips quirked at the sound of shrieking in the lower wards…an ordinary _freak_, at least.

Before, he had been alone. Now, he was surrounded by fellow exiles from society. While he could count only Catherine as a friend, there were many who did not shy away now when he entered a room- and none who pried to learn what was behind his mask. His money was enough to permit his residence, and his self-imposed exile was respected by the rest.

He filled his days with Catherine, shadowing her, perfecting his knowledge of the grounds. Like water seeping through cracks in stone, she had slowly filled him, washing away the dirt and grime inside.

He worried about the kitchen boys. They hadn't taken kindly to his interference, and seemed anxious to press his boundaries and to tease Catherine whenever they caught her alone in a show of defiance against his orders. They were careful not to push too hard, and he was usually on her heels, preventing any more than insults to be thrown her way, but it was disquieting.

"We should leave," he told her one night. Curled inside his narrow bed, he reveled in the almost-familiar sensation of skin against skin.

"Where would we go?"

"Back to Paris…" they would have forgotten about him now. They always did. The public was a fickle thing, especially as regarded the opera. The memories of the Ghost would have faded during a quiet year, twisted into legend that fewer and fewer would still believe, "To the Opera Populaire," he said firmly. It was the only home that he had known. He told her again about the lair that he had created…the box where he watched the shows…the sound of music drifting down through the ceilings at all hours of the night and day.

"Where else could we go?" she asked timidly.

He frowned. There was nowhere else. Paris was his world, just as _Treize Clouches _was hers. He told her so.

"But Paris would be frightening…" she chewed her lips. He could see the tension in her face from the thought of relearning the number of steps from the bedroom to the hall- from the thought of a city full of strangers and unknown paths.

"I told you that you never need to be frightened," he assured her, and pushed the thought of returning to Paris aside.

* * *

Months slipped past, summer to autumn, autumn to winter, so that a whole year had passed since he had first awoken at _Treize_ Clouches although it seemed longer. He hadn't yet decided whether he was comforted or chaffed by the routine. The one bright light that hid the shadows was Catherine. He would have said that he loved her, if he still believed that emotion to exist. 

"I'm gone tomorrow," he reminded her, one morning when they awoke in his chamber. It was early- _too _early, but Catherine still had her duties as a maid. He had offered to pay her board, intent that life had been unkind enough without forcing her to slave for others as well, but she had refused, prudently pointing out that questions would be raised about their arrangement if she accepted his offer. Thus far, no one had attempted to halt their rendez-vous. No doubt tongues were wagging, but it was also beyond debate that his gold kept the words from turning into actions. They were left more or less to themselves. Of course, Catherine was right. The Abbé could not permit him to openly keep a lover.

"Where are you going?" she asked, clinging to him a little more tightly, betraying her fear at being left alone.

"To Paris," he informed her, his mind already leaping forward to the precautions he would take to avoid being seen: his mask, a hooded cloak, traveling through the shadows to meet his agents on the fringe of the city to conduct affairs.

"When will you return?"

"Next morning," he answered in what he hoped was a soothing tone. "Shall I bring you a present?" In truth, he had already arranged for a list of parcels to be purchased on her behalf: some new nightrobes, and a flask of perfume and some other niceties that she might use without detection.

As he expected, she shook her head, "I don't need anything," she insisted, and he thought with smug satisfaction that this was probably true. He saw that her necessities were provided. He'd purchased her a new comb, which he kept in his room, delicate underthings, fine soap, and food to supplement the meager rations she received in the servant's hall.

"Perhaps there is something you want?" he pressed, wanting more than anything to bring a smile to her lips.

"For you to come back soon," she answered ardently.

The strange feeling twisted in his heart. Love? He dismissed the impulse again. It wasn't possible…and yet it felt so close to the emotion described in all the operas that he had sung, felt just the right size and shape to fit into the aching void that Christine had left. "Of course, darling," he whispered. He knew that he would- as fast as his horse could carry him.

The next morning he arose before dawn, hoping to reach Paris before midday. His prospects for success were greatly threatened by the rolling thunder and heavy clouds that drifted overhead.

"Don't go," Catherine begged him, "It will be raining before you've gone a mile. You'll be drenched and catch a fever- or else the roads will go muddy and you won't be able to come back."

"The storm will pass," he assured her. It was late spring, but most of the soaking rain had passed. When it broke, the tempest would be violent, but brief- and he hoped to be in Paris long before that happened.

"But-!"

"Peace, my darling," he said, foreclosing further debate with a heavy kiss and a palm stroked along her side. He lost himself for a while in her lips, and then, reluctantly, he pulled away to dress. "Don't go to the kitchens today," he commanded as he pulled on his boots.

"But, I-"

"I shall inform the housekeeper that you are sick."

"But-"

"Don't leave this room," he commanded, unable to protect her in any other way. "Count the hours until I return, they will be shorter than you fear, and you will be well-rewarded for our parting."

Then, with a final kiss, he forced himself to walk away.

The ride to Paris took longer than he'd expected, and he only barely missed the brunt of the storm. As if afraid of defying him, the clouds hung lower and lower as dawn approached, finally giving way only when his horse reached the stone paving of the streets outside Paris. He tightened his cloak, and continued to the small inn where he conducted his business.

Installed in his suite- the one he always commanded, he ordered wine and bread, and tightly shuttered the windows, so that only the flickering of a candle, and the occasional flash of lightning seeping beneath the sill illuminated the room. He didn't know if it was the storm, his proximity to the city, or how Catherine had begged, but he couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong.

Time seemed to stretch out, the air growing thick and heavy as the storm grew worse. He began to fear that Catherine was right- if the rain continued, the roads would be impassable, and he could barely stand to wait so long to reach her.

He was impatient for his contact to arrive. When the man did come, their dealings were terse and dismissive. One of the purchases- the most _important _purchase- had not been complete and he would be obliged to tarry a second day.

Clenching his hands in frustration he opened the window a crack. The rain would mire the roads. If he didn't return in the middle of the storm, he would miss his chance. However, even if he had been in possession of all his purchases, he would have been inclined to wait. Catherine was right. There was no sense being soaked to the skin- especially when it was wiser to travel by night.

Resigned, he penned a note to tell her that he was delayed, gave it to his servant with instructions for it to be delivered immediately and read to her aloud, and then tried to lie down and rest.

The rain continued all night. Although the parcel finally arrived, he was forced to remain a second night because the roads were impassable. It was dusk on the third day before he was able to return to _Treize Clouches _again.

A stable boy accepted his horse, but otherwise he was left to his own devices as he climbed the stairs, his entire being yearning toward seeing her again. He forgave himself the weakness of his wanting as he hurried the last few yards to the door. His heart tripped as he turned the handle- and then plummeted when he found the room empty.

She had been there. The sheets on the bed were still mussed- still scented with their lovemaking from three mornings before. There were no trays of untouched food, no discarded linens. He saw nothing amiss- until he looked at the doorway. There was blood smeared on the handle.

"Catherine!" he would not ordinarily raise his voice to hail her, but panic subsumed his reason as he tore down the hall, "Catherine!"

He continued the fruitless search until he spied another maid. She tried to duck into a doorway, but wasn't fast enough. He caught her shoulder,

"Where is Catherine?" he boomed, annoyed when the maid merely cowered silently.

He shook her shoulders roughly. "Where is the little maid who tends my chambers?"

There was a soft whimper, and then the girl managed, "There was an accident, sir…"

His blood chilled. The girl fell to the floor in a limp bundle when he finally released her shoulders. "Where is she?" he growled, trying to discount the horrific possibility that she might be dead.

"With the doctor…"

He didn't wait for further explanation. Forgetting the tactics of stealth, he sped through the house, finally arriving at the infirmary where he barged inside.

He frowned at the row of empty white beds, finding Catherine at last on the one furthest from the fire. She was gray and still. One of the sisters was hovering at her side.

"What happened?"

The woman shied away- either from his voice or his mask he could not say. She looked at her hands as she answered, "She…might have been attacked."

"Attacked?" his fingers balled into fists.

"One of the kitchen boys found her when he went up to read her your note. At first we thought she'd fallen, but…" the woman's cheeks were flaming. She looked so disconcerted that he had no doubts as to what type of assault she referred.

"Who?" he hissed, knowing the answer. He had been a fool not to leave explicit instructions regarding who was to deliver his message. No doubt one of the ruffians had volunteered, and then he had known that her protector would tarry- that there was a chance for revenge.

"There isn't any way to know- not unless she wakes."

"Unless?" Fear tempered a bit of his anger. He glanced down once more at the body, horrified by it's total stillness.

"She hasn't been conscious for two days."

The words dripped through him like ice water, chilling him to the bone. She hadn't awoken…

She still might die.

His heart seemed to still as he considered this possibility. Then, it lurched to life again, hammering with rage as he thought of her attackers.

_Vermin! _He seethed, his footsteps carrying him through the hallways to the kitchens.

The evening meal had been concluded, and the dishes put away. The room was empty. He smashed a tray in frustration, unwilling to wait even a night to take his revenge. His gaze cast around the room as he plotted his next move- and then his eyes caught on the open window.

Outside, he saw figures moving beneath the moonlight. Too far away to be distinct, he still managed to recognize the rough sounds of laughter that drifted from the yard. It was the kitchen boys. They had been drinking from what he could tell. Leering dangerously, he followed the sound into the courtyard.

Sticking to the shadows, he was nearly upon his victims before they noticed his presence. Unguarded, they were standing in the kirkyard, sipping spirits from a jug. The older of the pair spied him first.

"A pity about your girlfriend," one muttered snidely. His friend joined him in a peal of wicked laughter. Neither saw the murderous gleam in his eyes until it was much too late.

The boy barely had time to scream. His mouth opened, and a horrified squawk escaped his lips before cruel fingers tightened around his neck. The pressure was just enough to cut off his air- not sufficient to kill him quickly. He was meant to die slowly- to know what it was like to suffer and to fear- but he had forgotten about the second man. Terror paralyzed him for a moment, but then he took off in a run, so that their attacker was forced to quicken his murder, twisting his victim's neck with a sickening snap, and then sprinting after the man who would get away.

There was a critical error. Instead of returning to the house, or screaming for help, he dove into the church.

"Sanctuary!" he pleaded, dropping to his knees.

He was met with cold laughter, and watched in horror as gloved fingers curled around one of the heavy candlesticks upon the altar. "Do you think that I will give you mercy? Do you think I fear your God?" he lifted his weapon, meaning to bludgeon the other man, but he escaped. He lunged for the staircase, stupidly running deeper into his own trap.

"They'll hang you!" the boy jabbered, panic clipping the syllables into breathless bursts, "They'll hang you for what you done to Billy. They'll toss the lass out of _Treize Clouches_."

The pursuer didn't slow. He was beyond the point of rationality. His mind was focused on the hunt- on exacting his terrible revenge.

They wound up the staircase...higher and higher, finally reaching the row of scaffolding beneath the bells.

"Please, sir!" the boy whimpered, looking down and realizing that he was trapped, "I didn't mean no harm."

"No harm?" came the reply, "Forcing yourself on a helpless girl? Killing her…?" He advanced, smirking as the teen edged backwards, "Perhaps I mean_you _no harm." He felt no twinge of conscience as he backed the man to the very edge of the floor. The boy looked over his shoulder, no doubt judging whether he dared to jump, but the other man stepped forward. The weight on one of the boards was too much. It shifted, causing him to lose his feet. He floundered for the bell pull, catching the loop with the tip of his chin and inadvertently tangling his limps into the rope as he struggled away. He whined a prayer, and then another plea for escape.

Wicked laughter mocked him, "Your God cannot help you now." He regretted that it ended so easily. It took a single push, a second of limbs flailing fruitlessly in the air…and then it was over. The second body went lifeless as it plunged toward the chapel floor, catching on the rope of the bell. The copper clanger tipped, marking the passing with a low, resounding clang. It was repeated until the body stilled.

Still standing on the scaffolding, the murdered admired his work. Though the slats of the bell tower, he could see his first victim sprawled amidst the mud, even as the second dangled by his head.

The bell continued to clang.

He realized, too late, that it would draw attention. One of the sisters- the one who had been with Catherine?- appeared in the doorway of the house. He watched her scan the yard, heard her call to the kitchen boy lying face down in the mud, and then felt time stand still as she crossed the yard and finally discovered the truth.

Her scream echoed louder than the bell. In a moment the Abbéand others were flooding onto the soggy grounds- and then he realized that he had lingered too long. The shrieks grew louder. Eyes raised toward the church, and then there was more screaming and running.

Adrenaline filled him. The part of his mind that had clung to his animal nature firmly assumed control. He didn't think as he swung down from the tower. His mind was pleasantly blank as he scaled the side of the church, rolled into patch of damp grass, and then raced toward the stable before anyone could think to block his way.

His horse had been unsaddled since his return from town. He didn't bother with niceties, gathering his reigns, swinging onto the animals back, and then jabbing the beast in the ribs, racing down the first road that he found._ Treize Clouches _was a pathetic Eden, but he had cast himself from it again.

* * *

He returned to the Opera Populaire. He had told Catherine the truth. There was no other home for him. He had wandered much of the world in his childhood, but the labyrinth beneath the Opera House was the womb that had given him form. He crawled back, like a wounded animal to its hole, to wait and writhe in silence. 

It amused him to find that his predictions were accurate. The main passage from his chambers to the theater had been boarded shut, and the possessions were smashed or looted, but other rooms remained untouched. Very few men had dared to venture beyond the protection of the mob, and his greatest treasures had been preserved. He would rebuild. Even now he saw the dust on the rubble that barred the staircase that led above. He was forgotten. The public had moved to new diversions, leaving him to rot alone.

It was a dungeon and though he held the keys to his cell, he had sentenced himself to a lifetime internment. What was the point in ever leaving? He was mocked by the sun. To others it promised warmth and abundance. For him, it was the light that cast the cruelty of the world in sharp relief.

Fate mocked him. She offered just a taste of happiness- letting him know what it felt like to have a companion and a mate only to torture him with its loss…for he had lost Catherine. Even if she wasn't dead, she was gone from him forever.

There was no longer any solace in music. It too was a reminder- as if he had somehow assigned the notes themselves to Christine and to Catherine. It was the tool he had used to break inside his first love's heart…and the common language that he had used to woo the next. It was odd, in memory, he could not recall a single conversation in which he had revealed to Catherine how he felt, what life had been like without her, or what he dreamed of the future. The thoughts had dribbled out in the notes he played, even the pain rendered beautiful by the melody he wove.

Now it was over.

He dashed his head against the keys of his organ, filling the caverns with an unearthly groan that echoes, along with his wails, through the empty gloom. All of his life was loss and sorry. Why did he go on? What kind of a fool was he to cling to hope?

And yet…Catherine might still be alive. That was the thought that drove him through the first, anguish filled nights. She might have been preserved. Even if she was beyond his reach, he might be able to grant her comfort from afar.

He didn't dare to write a letter under his own name- or even as a pseudonym which the officials at _Treize Clouches _might trace. Instead, he called upon his trusted agent, instructing him to call on the hospital in the guise of a long lost uncle concerned about his niece.

_She was alive_. He scarcely remembered reading anything else that the letter which was shortly thereafter delivered said. Mademoiselle Catherine had been sleeping for three days, but finally came out of her stupor. They doubted if she would be able to earn a wage again. There was talk of sending her to a poorhouse- and then he knew, at least, how he might be useful to her again.

"An inheritance," he said to his agent, drawling the words with a hint of threat in his deep voice as he passed the silver into the man's waiting hand, "See that she receives most of it. I shall know if you've been greedy. I have my ways." He was mostly bluffing. Many of his contacts were gone now- but the other man still seemed to believe. He nodded his head and accepted the gift.

He watched him go, feeling an odd twisting in his heart. There was enough money in the packet to keep Catherine comfortable at _Treize Clouches _for many years. He would never see her again, but he had saved her after all. Resigned to loss, he turned his attention back to music again.

Every year, the talent at the Opera Populaire seemed to lessen.

He watched from Box Five, groaning as the dancers tripped over themselves, and the Prima Donna- a fat, red-faced Bulgarian even more disagreeable than Carlotta had been – waddled about the stage like a pig standing on hind legs, grunting her disapproval at everything that transpired.

André and Firmin had sold their shares in the days after the scandal had finally broken. The papers had been full of the "Phantom" then. For a week, interest had been insatiable. He had seen the newspapers, folded neatly in the box office, headlines blaring "_Mob Puts End to Opera Ghost_" and "_Opera Singer and Viscount to Wed_". They had been replaced by a bowed, gray-haired Briton who seemed likely to run the troupe more as a hobby than a business. He was shamefully forgiving with the crew, clapping for the shoddy orchestra and pathetic dancing, as if he were afraid to hurt their feelings by disapproval.

He watched from the box as a servant approached the old man, and whispered in his ear. Gesturing for the practice to continue, he slipped into the aisle and followed the other man back to the door. The observer's interest in the scene faded, and his attention returned to the stage, frowning as the _corps de ballet _stumbled through their waltz, and absorbing only snippets of the conversation that drifted in from the hall.

"Of course, madame, but I am sorry….no. There has never been a _maestro _by that name. You must be mistake…yes, yes. I'm quite certain…I understand….of course. Is it possible- I do not mean offense, but could the gentleman…perhaps…have been attempting a ruse? Young men are apt to exaggerate their worth, I fear…No, I was not the stockholder of the company then. That was last season. You may have heard the tale- the gossip of the Opera Ghost?"

He turned toward the door at this, interested anew.

Then his heart seemed to stop.

It was Catherine. He barely believed his eyes, but she was standing at the rear of the theater, leaning on the arm of a frightened girl that he also remembered from _Treize Clouches._

His agent must have been honest, and delivered the money according to his instructions, for Catherine was wearing a new gown. Of course, the hem of the dress was filthy- no doubt she had, unseeing, dragged it through the mire of the street, but her cheeks were less hollow than he recalled.

"I am quite sure that the ballet mistress would say the same, m_adame_. I am sorry that I cannot help you…"

_She was going to go away. _

Catherine's eyes were as blank as ever, but the small lines on her face betrayed her disappointment. She had not found what she was searching for…excitement surged through his veins- she had been searching for _him!_

His eyes scanned the theater, searching for a way to prevent her escape. He could attempt the back staircase, but he would likely fail to reach her on time- and he could never follow into the thronging Paris streets. He could scale the front of the box, but the performers could see him. Did he dare to call for her?

There had to be another way- and he was desperate to find it. The theater owner was already crowding the women back toward the door. Overhead, their watcher rose from the box, nearly ready to throw caution aside when he saw the answer in front of him: the organ.

In the alcove beside the box, tucked up next to the massive pipes that ran the height of the theater, the instrument sat abandoned. He did not dare to call to Catherine in words- but surely she would heed him in their special language? There was no time for doubt. Sprinting to the side he took his seat, poised his fingers above the keyboard, and then began to play.

He played _her _song. He remembered it without thinking- the tune that he had played her their first afternoon in the church- the melody that had first drawn her into his web. His fingers remembered each note: the tinkling green of her eyes, the swooping phrases of her shoulders, the deep crescendo of her chest… He looked up from the keyboard, seeking out the deep blue of her dress in the seat of red velvet chairs. He saw her. Improbably, she was wading toward him.

_Staircase…_

She was walking alone, and so he warned her, weaving ascending scales into the bass. Hypnotized, she obeyed. Almost as if she could see, her feet flurried up the steps. He warned her of the landing, and the turn at the top of the stairs, drawing her ever closer.

Over the music, he heard the maid and the theater owner calling for her to come back, but she obeyed only the rhythm that was drawing her close- obeyed only _him. _

"Are you there?"

She was still far away, but he thought he could feel her breath. It was as though the theater, and perhaps the entire world, had shrunk only large enough to hold the two of them.

The music paused, giving her the answer.

"Up there!" The shout came from the direction of the stage. The illusion that they were alone burst.

"Who is it?"

"You there!"

"Stop!"

Shouts erupted. He realized that there was no time to wait.

"Do you trust me?" he breathed as he scooped Catherine into his arms, but he didn't wait for a reply. She no longer had a choice. By coming to Paris, she had cast her lot with him. If he ever doubted that he loved her, it had been resolved in that golden moment when he realized that she had come for _him_. She shrieked as he vaulted the railing, and they fell into the box below, but he landed on his feet. He ran as fast as he could, darting behind a curtain, turning down a staircase, around a corner, into a hall…the footsteps and voices behind them grew more distant, and then they were gone completely.

He carried her a little further, and then stopped.

"Where are we?" Catherine's arms hugged her shoulders. Even the heavy wool of her dress was insubstantial to keep the chill of the cellars at bay.

"Beneath the Opera," he answered. He had paused to catch his breath. Now that he had it, he took her by the crook of the arm, carefully leading her deeper into the labyrinth. He turned toward her and added, more tentatively, "Home?"

"Home," she echoed. She stopped completely. When he too halted, she stepped forward into his arms. "You were gone again…" she scolded.

He felt a second surge of guilt. She felt so small in his arms- so insubstantial. He remembered again how- beyond the wanting- she needed him so!

"I had to leave," he explained, "I couldn't stay."

"You killed those boys."

The accusation hung in the air, unanswered for a long, hollow moment.

He swallowed, and then hardened his resolve. He had learnt that love could not be made captive against its will. It was a gift only freely given. If she stayed with him, it would be without pretenses, and so he told the truth. "Yes," he waited for her to flinch and turn away, "I've killed…many men."

Remarkably, she merely nodded her head. "I…I'm glad you killed them…" she whispered roughly after a pause. "They…"

"I know," he silenced her, laying two gloved fingers against her lips.

"It had been so beautiful…"

"It will be again…my darling…" he felt the urge to sweep her into his arms again- to drag her back to his chamber and right the wrongs her tormentors had wrought, but again he tempered himself. "I thought that I would never see you again."

"I wanted to die when you were gone." He squeezed her hand, not knowing how to reply, and was relieved when she continued, "But I understood…They would have hanged you, if you stayed."

"They still will, if they find me," he gave her an earnest look that she couldn't see, "I can never return to T_reize Clouches_."

"Then neither can I."

"Catherine- you don't know what you're saying. _Treize Clouches _is your home."

"My home is with you…I…I love you."

He had been waiting a lifetime to hear those words- and yet, he had not been prepared to hear them. He didn't understand the almost painful swelling in her chest when she echoed the words that had reverberated through his mind since she had first given him her body. She loved _him _- not only the image that he had chosen to reveal…everything.

"I'm not worthy…." He could not believe his fortune, but was given no choice when she squeezed his hand in soft rebuke.

"Then, perhaps I am foolish, for I do not think that is true. You are the only one who has cared for me…cared _about me_."

"I love you, too, Catherine…" he swung around, wanting to make a declaration as grand as the one that she had offered, but feeling inadequate. He wanted to promise her forever- not a wedding (Who in the church would bless the joining of two dark and shattered souls?)- but a bond deeper and more lasting than lust or even fondness. He wanted to give her jewels. He wanted to give her symphonies. He wanted to give her sight, if only for a second so that she could see how beautiful she was to him in that moment. There was nothing he could give, however, and so he simply drew her into a kiss. "I've missed you," he whispered, "So very, _very much. _"

They had finally reached his rooms, and he laid her palm against the door, explaining what it was, "Our own world," he explained. "The world that we will share."

He carried her across the threshold. She was his bride. He knew that he would think of her as such: their souls had been fused, consummated on the altar of the little chapel at _Treize Clouches_.

Seeming to understand the anxious energy surging through his touch, Catherine patted the walls until she reached the bed. She sat on the edge of the mattress, and gave him a coy smile, which, of course, never reached her eyes.

"Your friend will be looking for you…" he said, nervously. He wasn't certain that she understood. If she stayed with him, she could never go back.

"She will not linger long. She has a lover here in Paris. I am sure that they will find a use for the money in my purse- the money that you gave me."

"Money well spent," he pronounced. He settled down beside her and began stroking her back and shoulders. He was, at the same time, anxious to proceed, and determined to draw out anticipation as long as possible.

"I dreamed of you again…"

"Oh?" he cocked a brow at his young lover, shivering when she licked her lips. A faint blush had tinged her cheeks.

"I dreamed that we were married. I dreamed that we had a house of our own at _Treize Clouches…_You're so very handsome!"

He blinked, bemused, and then wondered if, perhaps, she could see a bit better than she pretended, because she frowned at him. "You _are!_ I can feel it when I touch you…scarred, but beautiful."

"Perhaps in your dreams," he muttered.

She shook her head, "Right now. Tonight…" her hand reached to pull his mask away. When it had been removed, she cupped his scarred cheek and drew it toward her lips.

Of course, she didn't recoil in horror. She bathed the skin in kisses, firmer every time that he flinched away, until he finally eased.

"You said that you'd never come to Paris…" he said, still not daring to believe his good fortune. "You said that you'd never leave _Treize Clouches_. "

She answered with an earnestness that pierced his heart: "You said that _you_wouldnever go away."

He turned his face into her lips, capturing them, covering them with his own.

"Never leave me…" she panted, and his body made this vow, enfolding her in his strong arms.

She was smiling when he looked onto her face- a sly, satisfied grin that belied her lack of innocence.

"You are mine," he growled into her ear, once again adding the silent vow that nothing would part them again.

She whimpered her agreement, and then sighed, her sweet breath puffing against his cheeks.

He had missed her so bitterly- had longed for the sweet communion of flesh. Nothing matched the pleasure, both of body and of soul as they fused into one being. He had often thought himself only half a man. With Catherine the shattered, scarred part of himself was shed, matched with the pure portion of her, and together, they were whole.

He cherished the perfection: the touch of her, the taste- the freedom of acceptance, of _love ._ "My darling, my angel, my love…." _Mine. _

_Mine at last. _

The sounds of their lovemaking echoed through the corridors, followed quickly by her own. There was no one to hear them- any one who did would, perhaps, think it the moaning of a ghost. It didn't matter. Nothing beyond the chamber mattered to him any more. He had music. He had his Angel.

He had peace.

**THE END**


End file.
